that there must be something very wrong indeed somewhere. I had never seen

Ackroyd so upset before.

 

“Ralph?” he said vaguely. “Oh! no, it’s not Ralph. Ralph’s in London——Damn!

Here’s old Miss Ganett coming. I don’t want to have to talk to her about this

ghastly business. See you to-night, Sheppard.

 

Seven-thirty.”

 

I nodded, and he hurried away, leaving me wondering. Ralph in London?

 

But he had certainly been in King’s Abbot the preceding afternoon. He must have

gone back to town last night or early this morning, and yet Ackroyd’s manner had

conveyed quite a different impression. He had spoken as though Ralph had not

been near the place for months.

 

I had no time to puzzle the matter out further. Miss Ganett was upon me,

thirsting for information. Miss Ganett has all the characteristics of my sister

Caroline, but she lacks that unerring aim in jumping to conclusions which lends

a touch of greatness to Caroline’s maneuvers.

 

Miss Ganett was breathless and interrogatory.

 

Wasn’t it sad about poor dear Mrs. Ferrars? A lot of people were saying she had

been a confirmed drug-taker for years. So wicked the way people went about